Here There Be Dragons
by Sita Z
Summary: Two men trapped in a small vessel, headed for an uncertain destination. Malcolm and Trip, 900 AD.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to Paramount. No profit is being made from this story and no infringement is intended.

AN I: This story is AU (Alternate Universe), so if that's not your cup of tea... you know the deal. This is the friendship version; for anyone interested, the Slash version will be posted at the Warp 5 Archive after I've posted the final chapter here.

AN II: The idea for this story was based on an e-mail exchange I had with Glory1863 a while ago about AU and history fics. I'd like to thank her for the inspiration, and Gabi and The Libran Iniquity for betaing the story. All remaining mistakes – and some poetic license taken with historical fact – are mine and mine alone.

Enjoy!

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_"In this year terrible portents appeared over the land of Northumbria, and sorely frightened the people. There were immense flashes of lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air. A great famine immediately followed these signs; and a little after that in the same year, on the eighth of June, the raiding of heathen men miserably devastated God's church in Lindisfarne island by looting and slaughter_."

(The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, on the Vikings' attack on Lindisfarne in AD 793)

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Chapter 1

There had been portents: flashes of lightning, famines, all sorts of signs and warnings. Dragons, even. You'd think that a fiery dragon crossing your way would make you wonder whether something fishy was going on. Well, and if people had paid the portents a little more attention rather than cowering in their homesteads, the heathen raiders might not have walked all over Lindisfarne quite so easily. They could have made preparations: palisades, pit traps, archers waylaying the arriving mob. The tactical possibilities were numerous, if you gave it some thought.

You had to pay attention to the dragons, of course.

Nearly a hundred years later, there were no dragons or celestial fireworks. The only portent Maelcolm could remember was a wooden cart accidentally set on fire, and the resulting squabble that had entertained the village for a good part of the day. Eventually, the High Reeve had decided that it didn't matter whether Leofric had dropped the torch accidentally or on purpose, and that compensations must be made. Hereward had gone home with one of Leofric's goats and a triumphant smile on his face, and Leofric had told anyone who would listen that the cart had been missing a wheel, anyway.

Not much of a portent, really. Then again, maybe portents only appeared when holy places were threatened. Maybe God and the Saints had decided that for a small coastal village inhabited by farmers a burning cart was enough.

It made no difference, in the end. The attack caught them completely by surprise, and even the fence guards could not do more than rouse the sleeping village with their cries of warning. There was no time to barricade the doors or send the children to hide in the woods. All they could do was grab their weapons and pray.

Maelcolm wasn't asleep at the time. His wife of two months, Ealdgyth, tended to snore, and he was still getting used to sharing a bed. After sleep had evaded him for several hours, he had gotten up and sat down in a spot of moonlight in the doorway to mend his leather pouch. That was something he could do even in the semi-dark. While he methodically stitched the tear closed, he found his thoughts drifting to the summer before last, the hunt that had lasted for days and days. They'd slept next to the fire and ventured deep into the woods, and there were no chores and no field work to be done. He'd enjoyed the solitude, too. In the past few weeks these memories had returned to him more often than they probably should. Maelcolm suspected that it was a sin for a man to want to be in the woods hunting rather than at home with his wife.

His wife, who snored. And who on their first night had taken his beaver fur, claiming that she needed it more than her husband. After all, she was his elder by sixteen summers and felt the night chill in her bones. And no, they couldn't share. Maelcolm had been left with a thin woven blanket that smelled of damp straw, and had shivered his way through his wedding night, wishing he was back in the woods.

Had it been anyone but Ealdgyth, he would have insisted on sharing the fur. A man shouldn't be afraid of his wife. Ealdgyth, though... she could get so bloody angry. And she was almost three fingers taller than himself. He knew it looked funny when she berated him, and he hated to have the neighbors laugh behind their hands.

Better to deal with a few sleepless nights, and keep his hunting equipment in good condition. It wasn't that she was a bad wife. She was quite friendly most of the time, and even pretty with her heavy blond braids, despite her forty summers. There were worse things than a little snoring.

Ealdgyth turned over in her sleep and sighed. Maelcolm glanced at the bed, wondering if he should crawl back in with her. It was getting chilly, and she wouldn't notice if he slipped under the fur blanket with her. Not much she could do about it in the morning, was there? He laid his pouch aside, and was about to head for the bed when he heard the first shouts.

Later, he only remembered that it had all gone very fast. The guards' cries immediately stirred the village to life; torches were lit, every available weapon was grabbed to meet the enemy when he came over the fence. Crying children were pushed into stables and told to keep quiet, while all the village dogs barked as if possessed by an insane demon. He remembered Ealdgyth beside him; of course she had refused to hide in the house.

The invaders didn't climb the fence. The posts splintered like dry firewood under the impact of their axes and they kicked the broken remnants aside as they advanced, larger-than-life silhouettes against the flicker of their torches. A cloud had darkened the moon, and he only caught glimpses of their faces, some of which weren't faces at all. He saw a man with a sharp beak, and one who had teeth protruding from his forehead. They hurled firebrands at the straw-covered roofs and yelled like no human being would, a sound as if the evil spirits had awakened all at once.

Ealdgyth was among the first killed. The bird-man came towards them, and Maelcolm raised his sword when the bird-man grinned at him – grinned behind his beak, which was only a mask, of course it was – and then suddenly turned and ran his sword through Ealdgyth's stomach. She didn't scream. Her mouth opened for air as she dropped to her knees, and he saw that she was still alive and in terrible pain. The bird-man yanked his weapon back, a sound like cloth dragged through muddy water. Ealdgyth slumped to the ground, and Maelcolm lifted his sword again. He aimed for the grinning mouth, but the blade caught the bird-man in the throat and that was when he understood that these people weren't demons or evil spirits. Their blood was red and warm and they whimpered when they were dying, and the man was dying, on the ground next to Ealdgyth, who was smiling at him through a mouthful of blood.

He wanted to say something to her and found that he couldn't speak. He knelt down on the ground and wiped his bloody hands on the grass, not wanting to soil her when he touched her. She whispered something, but the world seemed to have exploded in sound and he could only see her lips moving. He grabbed her hand, and she smiled again. Her pain seemed to be gone, and he knew it had left her and had taken possession of the groaning bird-man, and he was glad. She coughed. More blood came out of her mouth, and he gently wiped her chin, using the sleeve of his shirt. Don't worry, he wanted to say, don't worry. It's only a little blood, we'll make it stop, don't worry. He'd almost cleaned it all off when he saw that her eyes were no longer focused on him. She was dead. And so was the bird-man.

He got to his feet. He could hear the cattle bellowing in their enclosures, and loud thumps and crashes from within the burning houses. The strangers had kicked in the doors and were throwing things out of the windows, things and sometimes people. He saw Leofric's wife on the ground with her clothes in tatters and one of them moving on top of her, and he saw Leofric lying there with his throat slit open to his ears.

Someone stepped into his view. It was one of them, one whose face wasn't covered by a mask or a helmet. He wasn't much older than Maelcolm, and his eyes were wide, flickering in the fire light.

He said a few words and lifted his sword, indicating something on the ground behind Maelcolm.

"I don't think so, you son of a whore." Maelcolm grabbed his own sword and swung towards him.

The man quickly brought up his weapon to block the blow. He yelled something and for a second Maelcolm thought he'd caught some of the words in the strange language. It distracted him, and he didn't see the next blow coming until it was almost too late. The man's blade hit the flat side of his sword, and he felt the impact as if someone had struck him on the shoulders. He stumbled back, and stepped on something soft and giving, something that could only be a body. Ealdgyth or the bird-man, he didn't know. That was when the man struck again, and this time Maelcolm lost his grip on the sword. He looked at the man who was going to kill him.

"My hands are wet," he raised his palms to show his opponent that they were slippery with blood. "Or I'd have killed you, you bastard."

The man spoke again, and this time Maelcolm did understand the words. "Shut up."

Maelcolm had no idea why he would understand a Norseman's strange gibberish, only that it wasn't gibberish. Somehow this man could talk to him, could tell him to shut up before he planted his sword in Maelcolm's throat.

"Shit-licking coward, let me get my sword back and we'll fight like men."

"You have a big mouth on you, haven't you?" The Norseman stepped closer, and Maelcolm was furious to see a grin emerging on the boyish face.

"I'll slit you open and choke you with your own guts."

"Seems to me I'm the one with the sword," the Norseman said in his strange accent and raised his weapon.

Maelcolm closed his eyes and tried to turn his thoughts to God and the Saints, but there was only blood and fire and a strange man who was laughing at him, for which Maelcolm wanted to rip his throat out.

Then something heavy hit his head, and he knew only darkness.

TBC....

I'd love to hear what you think so far!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for your kind comments!

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Chapter 2

A successful expedition, Johan called it; scarce praise that took his men by surprise. The stern of the ship was heavy with their booty; burlap sacks full of corn, three slaughtered pigs, weapons, pottery, several dozen bales of linen and a few pieces of simple jewellery. Nothing that would draw looks of admiration or envy back home, and certainly nothing that could be offered as a worthy gift to the king. Still, if Johan deemed the expedition a success, no one would disagree.

Karl sat on his sea chest near the stern, watching Aki and Hedin as they reefed the sails. The wind had picked up quite a bit during the last two hours. With any luck it would stay that way all the way home, and no one would have to spend endless hours behind the oars as they had on the journey here.

Karl noticed Johan looking at him and held the other man's gaze until their leader turned away, apparently satisfied. He knew Johan was keeping an eye on him, this being his first tour. He also knew that it would be his last if he allowed himself a single slip or weakness. That was how Johan ran his ship.

He looked down at his hands, still sooty from the torches and firebrands they'd thrown, and wondered if anyone had noticed, back in that frenzied, swirling battle, that he _had_ been weak. A coward. The Saxon had been right in calling him that. He, Karl Karlsson, had shamed his family today, and he had done it by disappearing behind one of the burning huts and puking his guts out. It had been the child; that Saxon child he'd seen in the stable, dead, her features burned beyond recognition. The sickly sweet smell had filled his head, and for a moment he'd been sure he had stumbled right into hell.

After his moment of humiliation, he had returned to the fighting, determined to prove... he wasn't sure what, only that something had to happen to make up for the encounter in the stable. That was when the wild-eyed Saxon had appeared, clutching his farmer's sword and spitting insults. Karl had recognized the pure hatred in the man's eyes, and somehow it had driven away the shock of seeing the child. He had fought the man, and he had won, of course. Remembering the man's insistence that he'd only lost because the sword had slipped out of his wet hands, Karl bit his lip. He could have fought that peasant with one hand tied on his back, and still have won.

The Saxon was the showpiece of their less-than-glorious spoils of battle. He'd collapsed like a broken puppet after Karl had hit him with the flat side of his sword, but he wasn't dead, and Karl had decided not to kill him. No doubt the man would have come back to haunt him, an angry little spirit insisting that they fight it out like men. So he'd slung the smaller man over his shoulder and carried him away from his burning home, through the broken fence and back to the waiting ship. Now he was lying on the deck planks next to the corn sacks, tied hands and feet and still unconscious.

He was the only slave they'd be bringing home. The young girl Johan had captured was dead. She had screamed and cried as he brought her aboard, and when she'd seen the coast disappear on the horizon, she had climbed the railing and flung herself in the water. Cursing, Johan had ordered a rope to be tossed to her, but by the time the waves had already carried her off. The last they saw of her was her brown shawl drifting on the water. Johan had broken an oar in his anger. After that, Karl had cut off two pieces of rope and bound his Saxon on hands and feet. He understood why the girl had chosen to die, but he didn't want the Saxon to climb the railing as well.

"Karl?"

He raised his head. It was Johan again, looking down at him as if he'd been watching him for a while. Karl hoped that none of his thoughts had shown on his face.

"Johan," he said, and, since something else seemed to be expected: "A good day."

"It was." Johan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You did well today. Your uncles and your father will be proud to see you bringing home the only slave."

"The spoils belong to the ship," Karl replied quickly. He would be shaming himself and his shipmates if he, the youngest member of the expedition, boasted of the most valuable piece of booty. The slave was legally his, but that didn't mean it was Karl's place to present him to the king.

"That they do." Johan's face had softened a little, if that was at all possible for him. "I was a fool not to tie up the girl."

Karl wisely kept his mouth shut. No one called Johan, captain of the Sea Serpent, a fool, not even his best friend's son.

"Well, he should bring a good price," Johan continued with a glance at the Saxon. "You didn't injure him, did you?"

"I'm not sure," Karl said. The idea worried him, and he got up for a closer inspection. As he knelt down beside the man, the Saxon stirred slightly and moaned, but didn't open his eyes. Karl reached out and carefully felt around in the man's dark hair until his finger encountered a lump the size of a duck egg. No doubt the man would wake up with a raging headache.

He brought up his fingers for Johan to see. "He isn't bleeding."

Johan nodded. "If he sickens, he goes over the railing. But with any luck he'll have recovered by the time we get home."

"Yes," Karl said, avoiding Johan's eyes. He didn't like the idea of the Saxon being tossed overboard like a sack of old rags, although he wasn't sure why. A sick slave was no use to anyone.

Karl was in a bad mood for most of the afternoon. He sat down on his sea chest and repaired some of the weapons that had been damaged during the fight, glad that his shipmates sensed his desire to be left alone and didn't try to talk to him. He became absorbed in his work, and only looked up when Runolf called out to him from the stern.

"Karl, your slave is waking up!"

There was no reason why that should be of much interest to him – slaves were ignored most of the time. It was their job to look after their masters, not the other way around. After a few minutes had passed, Karl put down the sword he'd been working on and casually walked over to the stern.

The Saxon was awake, and clearly terrified. His gray eyes were wide and bright as he took in the high railing, the sails and the strange men that surrounded him, and finally focused on Karl.

"You," he said.

"Yes, me." Karl noticed that part of the fear in the Saxon's eyes had been replaced with anger, a change he welcomed for some reason. He crouched down on the deck next to his captive. "Does your head hurt much?"

The Saxon glared at him. "No."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'll lie to you as much as I want."

"So your head does hurt." Karl couldn't suppress a satisfied smile, and the Saxon narrowed his eyes, clearly angry to have walked into the rhetorical trap.

"What's it to you, anyway?"

Karl sat down on the planks next to him. "I'm your master now, so I'm concerned about your well-being. And you shouldn't talk to me like that," he added mildly, glad that none of his shipmates could understand their conversation.

The Saxon glared daggers at him. "The only thing you are is a steaming pile of rat shit, and I'll talk to you in whatever way-"

"-in whatever way you want, I know." Karl sighed. If the slave had said any of these things to Johan, he'd be strapped to the mast and whipped raw by now. Karl had never whipped a slave in his life. The slaves in his father's smithy did their fair share of work like everyone else, and old Herjolf had taught Karl everything he knew of the trade. He couldn't see himself raising his hand against any of them... or this Saxon, for that matter. Although he certainly deserved it.

"My name's Karl Karlsson," he began again. "What are you called?"

The Saxon turned away without an answer.

"I have to call you something," Karl stated. "If you won't tell me your name, I'll have to choose one for you." He pretended to consider. "Perhaps I'll call you Hrafnkel after my cousin."

The Saxon gave him a long look. Finally, he spoke again, in a voice far quieter than before. "I am Maelcolm, son of Stigweard."

Karl nodded. "Maelcolm. I'll call you that."

His captive seemed to have nothing to say to that. Karl glanced up and found Runolf watching him curiously.

"What?" he asked.

"You speak his language," Runolf stated. He didn't seem sure whether to approve or not. "You speak Saxon."

Karl nodded. "Just a little," he said. He wasn't going to let Runolf know just how much he understood, or where he had gained his knowledge. It wasn't anyone's concern.

"You should teach him to speak our language," Runolf said.

"I will, in time." Karl got up and went over to the barrels where they kept their supply of drinking water. Every man had a right to four ladles a day, and he was going to have to share his with Maelcolm. As a slave, the Saxon had no rights whatsoever, but Karl couldn't very well leave him thirsty.

He poured a generous ladleful into his wooden drinking cup and carried it over to the slave.

"Here," he said. "Don't waste it, we won't get much more today."

Karl saw that Maelcolm was considering to refuse the offer, but eventually the man swallowed his pride and allowed Karl to hold the cup to his lips. He drank greedily, emptying the cup in two gulps. When the water was gone, he briefly closed his eyes.

"Thank you." He said it so quietly that Karl almost didn't catch the words. Seeing Maelcolm's averted face, he was tactful enough not to say anything in reply.

* * *

Karl wasn't sure at first what had woken him. He was lying in his usual sleeping spot near the water barrels, and as far as he could see, nothing unusual was going on. The crew was asleep, except for the two men standing guard in the bow. The moonlight painted strange shadows on the deck and the still figures huddled under their sleeping furs.

He turned over and had almost fallen asleep when he heard it again, a quiet whisper with an undertone of command. The voice was coming from the stern. Karl pushed his sleeping fur aside and got up. It wasn't all that far-fetched to assume that his Saxon was stirring up trouble. Maybe he had decided that night-time was a good opportunity to escape, even if his only way out was the open sea. Then again, Karl doubted that the man would have betrayed himself by making any sound.

As he came closer, he saw that Maelcolm had indeed left his sleeping place; the blanket Karl had given him earlier lay crumpled on the deck. Karl looked around, afraid to catch sight of the Saxon just as he pushed himself off the railing.

"Maelcolm?" he asked quietly.

"Shh," a voice said to his right. "He's here. Don't wake the others."

Karl turned his head. Hjorvarth, Johan's eldest cousin, was trying to pull a furiously struggling Maelcolm into his sleeping fur, one of his hands clamped over the Saxon's mouth. He didn't seem very concerned to see Karl, grinning at him even as his other hand found its way under Maelcolm's shirt.

"Too bad Johan's girl is gone. But he will do, won't he?"

Karl had never been particularly fond of Johan's eldest cousin and his dislike had grown after today, when he'd seen Hjorvarth brutally raping a woman after slitting her husband's throat. He walked over to the man's sleeping spot, grabbed Maelcolm's arm and pulled him to his feet.

"I don't think so, Hjorvarth."

The older man stared at him. "What?"

"Every man aboard saw me carry him back to the ship. Ask Johan. Ask anyone. The spoils belong to all of us, but I'll decide where my slave spends his nights."

Hjorvarth scratched his graying beard, as was his habit when he was angry. "Older warriors than you show me more respect than that, Karl Karlsson."

"I'll show you respect if you show respect for my property, Hjorvarth," Karl said. "If you insist, I'll wake Johan to settle the matter."

Hjorvarth stared at him, then flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture and spat on the deck. "Don't disturb the captain over your petty concerns. I don't want your slave sharing my bed, anyway. I'd as soon bed a lice-ridden dog."

Karl was careful not to let his relief, or any other emotion, show on his face. Hjorvarth's sudden disdain for Maelcolm allowed him to keep face, but only if Karl played along and pretended to believe the act. If he didn't, he knew this might end in bloodshed. And of that there had been enough.

"Of course," he replied politely. "Goodnight, Hjorvarth."

Hjorvarth said nothing and turned his back to Karl, pretending to be busy straightening his sleeping fur. Karl looked at Maelcolm. The man seemed shaken, far more so than when he'd first woken up. He had lowered his head, but Karl saw that his bound hands were trembling.

He glanced at the crumpled blanket on the deck. Hjorvarth wouldn't try anything tonight, but that didn't mean none of the others would. There had been grumblings about the lack of female captives, even more so after Johan's girl had killed herself. Karl had never been on a tour before, but he knew that some men went to gain wealth, others went to earn respect and fame, and some went because you could fuck the prisoners on the way back. And if there weren't enough women, then the men would do just fine.

He closed his hand around Maelcolm's arm. "Come."

Maelcolm stumbled along, the rope on his ankles allowing only small steps. He said nothing, and Karl remained silent as well, unwilling to wake the others and cause more of a stir than necessary. When they had arrived at his sleeping spot, he sat down and patted the fur next to him.

"Lie down."

Maelcolm looked at him, and Karl saw only too clearly what was going through the man's mind: He understood that he would have to share someone's bed tonight, and while he resented the idea, he was too realistic not to choose the lesser of the two evils. They seemed to arrive at this conclusion at the same time. Something like resignation crossed Maelcolm's face, and he awkwardly lowered himself onto the fur where he lay stiffly, his face averted.

Karl reached for the top half of the blanket and carefully arranged it until they were both covered. Then he leaned over to the slave, speaking very softly even though he knew that no one around could understand him: "I won't hurt you. It's because of the others."

He was soon asleep after that, missing the expression of surprise on the other man's face.

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Later that night, Karl woke again, only that this time he knew what had woken him. It was the sound of someone crying very very quietly, coming from the man next to him. Maelcolm's face was pressed into the fur, and his shoulders shook as he tried to suppress his sobs. At first Karl lay very still. The charred, distorted face of the child in the stable was still in his head, unwilling to be forgotten, and he realized that she might have been Maelcolm's daughter. There had been a dead woman on the ground behind Maelcolm, the front of her dress stained red. She must have been his wife. The raped woman, a friend or a neighbor. Johan's girl, a cousin perhaps. And all of them dead, rotting on a far-away coast while their spirits waited in vain to be transferred to the realms of the dead. There was no one left to make sure they got there safely.

Karl reached out and wrapped his arms around the other man, pulling him close. Maelcolm stiffened and tried to push him away, and Karl began murmuring soft words, a prayer to the good spirits his mother had taught him when he was little. He hadn't understood the sing-song words then, just like Maelcolm wouldn't understand them now, but they had always calmed him and lulled him to sleep.

Maybe the spirits were listening, Karl thought when Maelcolm finally relaxed in his embrace. They couldn't erase the child's image from his memory or bring Maelcolm's clan back, but maybe they could grant two men a night of undisturbed sleep.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing!

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Chapter 3

Maelcolm was stalking a deer. He advanced very slowly, focusing on his prey that stood in the middle of the clearing, its delicate ears flicking back and forth as it listened for potential danger. It didn't notice him until he was about thirty steps away, although it was staring in his direction. Looking at him. He pulled back and threw his spear as hard as he could. A dark blur whizzed towards the animal, followed by a sound like a stick driven into muddy ground and a sudden, inexplicable pain. He glanced down at himself, and found the spear protruding from his chest, its tip slimy with his own blood. And the deer was watching him, indifferent, its eyes empty like two pebbles in the sockets of a skull.

That was when he woke up. There was a moment of relief – the deer had been a dream, no deer in the woods had eyes like that – before he noticed that something _was_ pressing on his chest. An arm. Someone had his arm wrapped around him.

Maelcolm immediately began to struggle free of the embrace, suddenly reminded of what had happened the night before. He'd fallen asleep only to be prodded awake by a boot nudging his shoulder. An old man with stinking breath had grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet, and Maelcolm had been convinced he would be thrown over the railing. He'd soon realized that the man wasn't out to kill him, although what was going to happen instead wasn't necessarily preferable.

The arm was still around him, and for lack of other options, Maelcolm kicked out hard with his bound feet. Someone groaned behind him, and finally the arm disappeared. Maelcolm turned around.

The Norseman – Karl, Maelcolm remembered, he called himself Karl – was sitting up on the fur blanket, nursing his leg.

"Why did you kick me?" he asked, sounding more sleepy than angry.

Maelcolm moved away from the man as he sat up himself. They'd spent the night under the same blanket, and yet no harm had been done to him. The Norseman – Karl – had kept his word.

He looked down at his bound hands, shame filling him as he remembered his terror of the night before. If the old man hadn't put a hand over his mouth, he'd have cried out, and all of these strange warriors would have known what was happening. He was nothing more than a dog to them, and yet this final indignity he could not have borne.

A hand took his chin and lifted his face up. He looked at the Norseman, whose expression was serious but not unfriendly. "You make me look like a fool when you don't answer my questions."

Yesterday he'd responded with insults, surprised when nothing but a mild reprimand followed. It was different today. The man had kept his word.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his chin was released.

Maelcolm looked away, thinking of the deer with the dead eyes. The dream had been sent to tell him something, but he was no soothsayer who could interpret its meaning. Father Benedictus preached against prophetic dreams and healing spells, calling them superstition and ungodly witchery. But ungodly or not, the spells worked, and any man would be a fool to ignore a dream like that. Ealdgyth might have known what it meant. Back home, he would have asked her.

Maelcolm began to get to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Karl asked.

Maelcolm nodded at the railing where two other men were standing, relieving themselves into the sea. So this was what being a slave felt like. You had to answer to someone even when you went for a piss.

Then he remembered that he was supposed to respond to questions. "I have to go," he said.

Karl gave him a long look, and Maelcolm assumed that it was because he had taken so long to reply. He was surprised when the Norseman spoke again.

"Give me your word that you won't climb over the railing, and I'll take those off." He nodded at the ropes on Maelcolm's hands and feet.

Back home, the word of a slave was worthless unless confirmed by a free man, and Maelcolm had no doubt it was the same with the Norsemen. Yet this man, Karl, was willing to accept his.

"You have my word," he said, and then, because it had been a bad night and his pride had taken a few too many blows, "Any coward can crawl into a hole and die. Where I come from, men aren't cowards."

Karl sighed as he climbed to his feet. "And where I come from, slaves who shoot their mouths off usually regret it."

Maelcolm lifted his chin to show that he wasn't impressed. Karl only shook his head and pulled a knife from his belt. He leaned down to free Maelcolm's ankles, then straightened up again and cut through the ropes on his wrists.

"Go," he indicated the railing, and for once, Maelcolm obeyed without delay. He really had to go quite badly by now.

* * *

Maelcolm was sitting in the stern mending a pair of leather boots when one of the Norsemen approached him. Maelcolm had noticed him before; he was taller than most of the crew and wore a fur-trimmed cloak that would have befitted a High Reeve. He stood in the bow most of the time consulting with two older warriors, one of whom was the old man with the stinking breath.

Maelcolm quickly got to his feet as the Norsemen's leader came closer. Maybe the old man had complained to his captain, who had now come to mete out justice. If he had, Maelcolm was determined not to shame Karl and himself by begging for mercy.

The leader looked him up and down, then said something in his language. Maelcolm lowered his eyes and gave no reply. He was aware that his silence would anger the man, but an answer in a language the captain didn't understand might be an even greater offense.

The leader sighed and turned around. "_Karl!"_

Karl immediately abandoned what he was doing and came over. "_Já, Johan?"_

The captain pointed at Maelcolm and spoke a few sentences in his language. The only Norse words Maelcolm had learned so far were _skor _and _gjor,_ and it seemed pretty clear that the leader wasn't talking about boots or food.

Karl replied in Norse and then turned to Maelcolm. "Johan says that he saw you in battle. You killed Byrnjolf."

Maelcolm raised his head. The bird-man. It was strange to learn his name, to learn that he even had a name. When they'd come over the fence like demons from another world, it had seemed unimaginable that any of them had names.

"I did," Maelcolm said, and this time he didn't lower his eyes. They would kill him, but before they did, he would let them know that he had been acting within his rights. "He killed my wife, so I took his life. I am the son of Stigweard, son of Godric, son of Leofwine. That is what I did."

Karl seemed startled, but turned to the captain to translate what Maelcolm had said. Maelcolm listened to the names of his forefathers repeated in Karl's strange accent, and knew it was the last time they had been spoken aloud by any man. He had no children, so the memory would die with him.

The captain listened to the translation without any visible sign of emotion. Then, he looked at Maelcolm and said a single, short sentence, pointed at the boots on the deck and added another few words. After that, he turned around and walked away.

Maelcolm glanced at Karl, who indicated that Maelcolm should sit back down.

"Johan said you should get back to work." He paused, then added, "He also said that it was a good fight."

Maelcolm sat and picked up the boot he'd been mending. "Where I come from, any slave who kills a free man is put to death."

"That is what our laws say, too," Karl said. "But Byrnjolf wasn't killed by a slave."

"He was killed by a free man," Maelcolm replied quietly without looking up from his work.

"Then he'll take a warrior's place in the afterlife." Karl looked after Johan who was back in the bow, accepting a drinking cup from one of his consultants. "And he's out of Johan's hair. Byrnjolf was spreading rumors about a chest of jewellery he claimed disappeared during the last tour. He said Johan hid it below deck and carried it off to a hiding place after our return."

"A lie," Maelcolm stated, careful not to phrase it like a question.

"Perhaps." Karl got to his feet. "Come to me when you're finished with these. I'll save you some food."

Maelcolm watched as the crew trudged over to the cooking place to gather their share. Johan received his first, along with several strips of meat he shared with his consultants.

Maybe his dream had been a warning that he needed to be very careful if he wanted to survive.

TBC...

Love to hear what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I love hearing what you think!

* * *

Chapter 4

That night and on the two following ones, Karl shared his sleeping fur with the Saxon slave. No one took much notice of the arrangement, and if Hjorvarth grumbled a little, Karl saw no need to pay him any mind. Even though he kept his promise not to force himself on the man, it was nice to sleep with a warm body next to his. Almost what he imagined having a wife would feel like. He very much wanted a wife – someone to share his house and bed - but his uncles had decided he was to marry Jofrid, who would turn all of nine years this summer. It was at least another four years until they could live as man and wife, and his occasional affairs with girls from the neighboring village couldn't compare to a marriage.

Maelcolm hadn't shed any more tears after the first night; not to Karl's knowledge, that was. Sometimes the Saxon lay awake for long hours and whispered to himself, reciting names that could only belong to his clan. Karl didn't ask him about it.

On the third morning, Karl woke to find that source of warmth next to him gone. He rolled over, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Maelcolm was awake and sitting up on the fur blanket, and he'd apparently been for a while. He sat very still, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the gray sky, and Karl was suddenly acutely aware of the change in the other man's appearance. Maelcolm's hair no longer hung to the collar line as it had when he first came aboard. On the second day, Johan had tossed Karl a pair of shears and pointed at the Saxon, and Karl had proceeded to cut the man's hair to the short length that was acceptable for slaves.

He remembered his surprise when he'd found that Maelcolm's hair was soft and clean. People at home told stories about the filthy, stinking island dwellers who never combed their hair or trimmed their beards. His slave seemed to be an exception to the rule.

"What are you looking at?" he asked finally, realizing that he was staring at the man for no reason.

Maelcolm gave him a short glance, then nodded at the horizon. "There's a storm coming."

Karl sat up. The morning chill should have subsided by now; instead, the air seemed to have turned colder. Clouds were piling in the north, dark and distended with rain. Looking up, he saw that the sail was filled with wind, its rigging straining.

He began to get to his feet. "You should go below deck."

Maelcolm raised his head. "I'm not afraid."

Karl could see that this wasn't quite true. The coast-dwelling Saxons weren't a seafaring people, and hardly ventured onto the open sea. Maelcolm had probably never been more than a few hundred meters from the shore, and the sight of the storm clouds obviously intimidated him.

"Go below deck," Karl said. "Take the sleeping fur with you. I'll fetch you when it's safe."

Maelcolm began to roll up the fur as he did every morning. "No."

"No?"

"I can help, too." Maelcolm stood very straight, that stubborn tilt to his chin as he continued, "I can do my share like everybody else."

Karl crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I'm giving you an order."

"And I'm not hiding below deck like a coward when there's work to be done. I'm the son of-"

"-son of Stigweard, I know, I know!" Karl was beginning to get genuinely annoyed with the man, although he wasn't quite sure why. Maelcolm couldn't do much harm if he stayed on deck. "No one's calling you a coward. But I want you out of the way when that storm hits, you understand?"

Maelcolm narrowed his eyes at him. "You're just worried about losing a slave."

He spat out the last word, and Karl knew that this was his chance to enforce the boundaries of their relationship which he'd conveniently ignored so far. His chance to act the master, to humiliate the other man. Drag him below deck and tie him to a crate. At least he'd be safe then.

Karl sighed. "Look, there really isn't much you can do."

Maelcolm didn't move. "You don't know that."

Odin was his witness, he'd never met such an irritating slave. Karl had just opened his mouth to give the Saxon a piece of his mind when Johan called out to him from the bow.

"Karl, we need you at the rudder!"

Turning, Karl saw that the crew were slipping onto their places behind the oars, while Aki and Runolf reefed the sail. Obviously, Johan had decided that they had a fair chance of out-rowing the storm.

He glanced at Maelcolm, who stood there with a truculent expression on his face. "We need every man at the oars," he said. "Johan wants me as steersman, so you can take my place. Watch the man in front of you, and stay in sync with the stroke. Don't mess this up, you hear me?"

"I won't," was all Maelcolm said.

Karl nodded, already on his way to the steering arm. Somehow, he knew that Maelcolm wouldn't prove a problem, that he'd do everything to help propel the Sea Serpent to safety – because he was afraid of the storm, and because the son of Stigweard wasn't a coward.

As he took his place at the rudder, Karl watched from the corner of his eye as Maelcolm sat down behind one of the oars, receiving suspicious glances from his neighbors. A slave wasn't normally put to work at the oars; rowing was a warrior's responsibility and prerogative. No one ordered him away though, and Karl assumed they wouldn't have succeeded if they'd tried. The way Maelcolm saw it, he _was_ a warrior and was taking his rightful place as a man among men. Breaking that attitude would be one hell of a job, if it could be done at all.

At Johan's command, the crew took hold of the oars and began to row against the rising waves. It was raining by now, and the sail snapped and cracked over their heads. Karl had to use all his strength to keep the steering arm steady. The waves smashed against the hull like live beings, and from time to time a barrelful of salt water would crash at the bow and spray the deck. Johan himself had joined the rowers and chanted a rhythm that matched the beat of his oar, shouting to be heard over the noise.

Karl risked a glance at the horizon and found a demon staring back at him, its gray face swollen with rage. He nearly lost his grip on the rudder. The demon was in the clouds, and the clouds were the demon, but that didn't make it any less real.

That was when he knew they wouldn't outrun the storm; not this time.

Some of the crew cried out and Karl knew that they, too, had seen the face in the storm clouds. The first claps of thunder sounded like otherwordly laughter to him. The Gods had sent a dark one to stir up the seas, and as all descendants of evil it was enjoying the mayhem, sending bolts of fire into the towering waves.

Soon the rain became so heavy that he could barely make out the rowing crew, let alone the demon. There was only the steering arm which had acquired a life of its own, fighting his attempts to hold it steady. A loud crash followed by the sound of splintering wood told him that some of the cargo hadn't survived the waves bearing down on it. If he'd insisted on sending Maelcolm below deck, the man might have been crushed to death between the sliding crates.

The demon unleashed all its fury, and the Gods did nothing to prevent it. When the ship careened so sharply that the port railing nearly touched the water, Karl heard some of the crew cry for help. Thor was turning a deaf ear. The Sea Serpent was caught in the worst storm she'd ever faced, and Karl knew better than to hope for a helping hand from above.

Some of the oars had splintered under the water's impact, but most of the crew were still on their posts when the first of the giant waves hit the deck. Suddenly water was everywhere, above, around and below, turning the world into a roaring frenzy. Karl thought he heard the fading shouts of those washed overboard, but it might have been the howling of the wind. He couldn't see anything but churning waters and occasional glimpses of objects or humans being tossed back and forth.

Another wave bore down on them, taking the mast and several men with it. In a flash of lightning, Karl saw that the ship – what was left of it – was riding the crest of a wave as high as four houses, about to tumble down into a dark abyss of water, and at that point he closed his eyes and yelled at the Gods to stop this madness.

The thunder laughed at him, and suddenly the deck under his feet tilted, leaving him clinging to the steering arm and scrabbling for purchase on the wet planks. Chests and crates slid past him, and he saw Johan's disbelieving face as one of them hit him in the chest and disappeared with him into the sea.

Karl cried out as the rudder slipped out of his hands. The deck had leveled out again and he was thrown hard onto the planks, where he grabbed the first thing he could reach. It was a piece of rope still attached to the ship, and Karl wound it around his wrist as tightly as he could, tying its end into a makeshift knot. He wouldn't survive that way, but at least he'd drown on his ship and not in the dark and wet hell below.

He raised his head. There, behind a wall of rain was the demon, looming over the sea. It was laughing.

Karl closed his eyes and thought of calm seas and bright days, of his parents back home and strangely enough, of the Saxon whom he'd carried off and who was now dead, drowned.

Then another wave came down on him, bringing a welcome darkness.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: All feedback is very much appreciated, thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

Chapter 5

Clear blue sky.

It was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Blue sky, not a single cloud. It was what he'd always imagined Heaven to be like. Father Benedictus said there were angels rejoicing and grace abounding, but Maelcolm had only a faint idea what that meant and he didn't particularly like it. The blue sky, however... it looked like a place where he could be convinced to spend eternity.

Something bumped against his thigh, calling his attention back to earthly matters, and Maelcolm realized that he wasn't in Heaven, or even dead. He was lying in a puddle of very cold water, soaking wet and feeling if he'd been dropped from a very great height. Beneath him, the deck was gently swaying back and forth, buoyed by calm waves. Maelcolm glanced down at himself, and saw a broken oar lying on the planks; the thing that had nudged his thigh.

Very slowly, he sat up. His body ached at every movement, and he shivered. The sun was shining, but it was still cold, a last reminder of the pandemonium that had so suddenly descended on the sea.

Maelcolm looked around. The ship, if it could still be called that, was devastated. The mast was gone, leaving behind a splintered stump and a broken railing where it had crashed down when it fell. Bits of wood and tattered pieces of the sail were scattered on the deck like leaves after an autumn storm. And of course, the bodies. Maelcolm could see one lying crumpled on the deck, his neck twisted at an odd angle as he stared, unseeing, at the sky. Another one was stretched out next to the rudder. Maelcolm squinted in the bright sun until he recognized the worn leather jerkin and the blond braid. It was his Norseman, Karl. And he was dead.

Maelcolm sat there for a while, waiting for the sun to warm his numb limbs. He should be glad. God and the Saints had heard his prayers and sent a great storm to destroy the heathens who had killed his family and burned his village. Only that he'd never asked Them to. He'd only asked to go home, where he would be a free man again if nothing else. And besides, Maelcolm thought with a glance at the sky, it would certainly help if They had remembered to get him off the ship before They sent Their revenging storm. He'd only escaped drowning because of the rope he'd wrapped around one of the crossbeams and tied to his wrist.

Then he remembered what Father Benedictus would have to say about such irreverent musings. He untied the rope around his wrist, and awkwardly got to his feet. Rather than lamenting his own fate, he should be performing the last rites for these men, who had died like warriors, even if they were enemies.

On unsteady legs, he made his way over to where Karl lay on the deck. Maelcolm saw that the Norseman had wrapped a rope around his wrist to prevent himself from being washed overboard. The sight saddened him. If God and the Saints had helped him survive that way, They could have done the same for Karl, even if he was a heathen. It seemed somewhat petty not to.

More irreverence. Maelcolm reached out and touched Karl's arm, surprised when he found the man's body still warm. He closed his fingers around one shoulder and was about to turn the body onto his back when Karl moaned – very softly, but unmistakably the sound of a living man.

Maelcolm tightened his grip. "Karl? Can you hear me?"

The Norseman moaned again and then began to move, lifting a hand only to be stopped by the rope around his wrist.

"Wait," Maelcolm said, and began to untie the rope. While he did so, an unexpected smile cracked his salt-crusted face. God and the Saints, it seemed, helped him who helped himself.

When Maelcolm was finished, Karl slowly rolled over on his back. His face was pale and there was a bloody gash on his forehead, but other than that he seemed unharmed.

"You," he said.

"Yes, me." Maelcolm smiled again, remembering how he had first woken up. "Does your head hurt much?"

Karl seemed to remember, too, and shot him a look. "What do you think?"

"I'm glad you're alive," Maelcolm said. And he was. He might still die drifting on the sea in a broken wreck, but at least he wouldn't be alone.

Karl began to sit up. "What about the others? How many..."

He broke off, and Maelcolm wasn't sure what to say. He'd only seen one body aboard, but with nearly all of the railing missing, it wasn't difficult to imagine what had happened to the rest of the crew.

Karl was looking at him, and Maelcolm glanced down at his hands. "I haven't seen anyone else."

Karl climbed to his feet, grabbing Maelcolm's shoulder for balance. "That can't be true. They can't all be gone."

Maelcolm remained silent, watching as the other man made his slow way around the wreck that had once been a proud warship. Karl paid no attention to the body on the planks, determined to find evidence that _someone_ other than them had survived. He walked around the entire deck. When he eventually returned to Maelcolm, his eyes were brighter than usual.

"There isn't..." He shook his head, turning away.

Maelcolm got up and carefully put a hand on Karl's shoulder, expecting to be pushed away.

"They're with God and the Saints," he said. He wasn't sure that was true – they'd been heathens, after all – but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Karl didn't push him away. He stood there for several long minutes and stared at the sea, not moving, not doing anything at all. Maelcolm left his hand where it was. That first night aboard, he'd found some comfort in being touched by someone who was aware of his pain. Maybe Karl would, too.

Finally, Karl turned around. "We can't stay here," he said.

Maelcolm stared at him. Maybe Karl's grief had clouded his thoughts. "What do you mean?"

Karl said nothing, and only nodded at the hatch that led below deck. Maelcolm went over to the opening in the planks. Its wicker covering had been lost. At first, all he saw was the black interior of the ship. Then he noticed a glitter of sunshine reflected off a smooth surface, and the gentle movements of wooden crates swaying back and forth in several hand's breadths of water.

"We'll have to bale it out," he said to Karl.

The Norseman shook his head. "The hull's sprung a leak. By tonight, the ship will be at the bottom of the sea."

He sounded as if he were past caring. Maelcolm glanced down the hatch again. He had no way of telling if the water level was rising, but he trusted Karl to know.

"So, what do we do?" he asked, looking back at the Norseman. "Can you repair it?"

"No," Karl shrugged. "We'd still sink. There's been too much damage."

"Can we build a raft then?" Maelcolm had never built a raft in his life, but these Norsemen were accomplished sailors. Surely they knew how to build all sorts of watercrafts.

Karl gave no reply, and Maelcolm noticed that he was eyeing the sea again, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

"What about the raft?" he repeated. "Do you know how to build one?"

The other man turned his head, as if he'd forgotten Maelcolm was there. "There's the _faering_," he said. "It should still be intact."

He nodded at a large object close to the bow that was covered with skins and secured to the deck. Maelcolm had noticed it before, assuming it to be yet another part of the cargo the Norsemen had gathered on their raids.

"Is it a boat?"

"Yes," Karl finally looked away from the sea. "A rowboat we take along on inland expeditions."

"Is it seaworthy?" Maelcolm knew that it didn't matter; if need be, he'd climb into one of the wooden crates and paddle away from the sinking ship. But his questions seemed to stir Karl out of his strange apathy, and so he asked anway.

"It should be fine for a while," was the less-than-reassuring answer.

Maelcolm nodded. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating the covered _faering_. The sight of the water in the hold had scared him, and he didn't want to stay aboard any longer than necessary.

Karl followed him over to the bow, and silently began to untie the ropes that held the small ship to pegs in the deck. They'd almost finished pulling the skins off when he spoke again.

"Maelcolm?"

"Yes?"

"Who are God and the Saints?"

Maelcolm considered, then shook his head. God and the Saints would have to wait, which was Their own fault, really. After all, They had sent the storm that had destroyed the Sea Serpent.

"It isn't important," he said, and set about pulling off the last skin. Father Benedictus would disapprove, no doubt, but it couldn't be helped. Right now, they had a boat to launch.

* * *

They dragged the _faering_ over to the splintered railing, tied sturdy ropes to the boat's pointed ends and carefully lowered it into the water. As it floated next to the ship, Maelcolm could see for himself that the Sea Serpent was sinking. There was barely a man's length between the deck and the sea level, noticeably less than there had been when he had first woken up.

Karl didn't speak as he methodically gathered supplies, and Maelcolm kept silent as well. The thought of the water slowly seeping into the belly of the Serpent scared him more than he cared to admit.

They piled up food supplies – some of them from Maelcolm's village - , as well as blankets, baskets and few earthenware bottles that were corked and obviously contained some sort of wine or mead. Karl jumped into the _faering_ and stowed away the things Maelcolm handed him, calmly and efficiently as if he'd done the same thing a hundred times before.

Finally, they hoisted two unopened barrels of drinking water over the side. Karl tied them to the sides of the boat where they floated dome side up. "We can use them to collect rain water," he said. Maelcolm nodded as if he'd been thinking the same thing. He wouldn't let the Norseman know, but he was immensely glad to have a travel companion who was experienced in nautical affairs. And who didn't seem to mind being close to the water. Maelcolm himself wasn't so sure he liked the way the waves lapped at the sides of the small boat.

He was about to climb down into the _faering_ himself when Karl held out a hand from below. "Help me up."

Frowning, Maelcolm pulled the other man back onto the deck. "Do we need something else?"

"No," Karl shook his head. "But we can't leave him like this."

Maelcolm had almost forgotten about the body. The man was still lying on the deck in between the broken oars, his empty eyes fixed on the sky. Maelcolm turned away from the sight and made a sign to ward off evil spirits. It wasn't good to look a dead man in the eye.

Karl had noticed the gesture, but didn't comment on it. "Help me," he ordered, and together, they laid out the dead man on the deck, arranging his broken limbs so that they looked as they had when he'd been alive. Karl fetched an axe from the stern and closed the man's stiffening fingers around it, then covered the still face with a piece of leather.

"Now he won't come after us." He stood, looking down at the body. "His name was Runolf, son of Aslak, son of Eyvind. They await him in the afterlife."

"Amen," Maelcolm added, earning himself a strange look.

They left the dead man behind and climbed into the waiting boat, which was immersed quite deeply and sank another two handbreadths with the additional weight. Maelcolm caught himself sliding towards the middle of the boat, and deliberately stopped the movement. Karl didn't seem to have noticed.

"You take the front oars," he said. Maelcolm obeyed silently. As long as he didn't look too closely at the waves, he was fine.

"Row," Karl ordered, and they plunged their oars into the water and didn't stop until the ship in the distance could be covered with one hand. At that point, Karl pulled his oars into the boat and sat in silence, waiting. The sun was beginning to set when there was a quiet, almost inaudible sound in the distance, a gurgling hiss, and then the ship slowly disappeared, its serpent head looming up for a few seconds before it, too, was swallowed by the sea.

Maelcolm sat wrapped in one of the blankets, watching the other man. Karl stared at the place where his ship had been, then turned his back to Maelcolm and rested his head on his knees. He still hadn't moved when Maelcolm, lulled in by the gentle swaying of the waves, fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

That night, something bumped against the side of the boat, waking Maelcolm. At first he thought he'd imagined it and closed his eyes again, only to be startled awake by another soft thud. He pushed his blanket aside and crawled over to where the noise had come from. Glancing over the side, he recoiled and nearly shamed himself by crying out. Only a hand clapped quickly over his mouth kept the scream inside.

He'd expected to see his own reflection on the water, and had looked directly into the bloated, swollen face of Johan, the Norsemen's captain.

Maelcolm looked over at Karl, who was wrapped in his blanket at the other end of the boat. The noise hadn't woken him.

Eyes averted, Maelcolm made the sign against evil spirits and moved away from the side of the boat. Maybe Johan had followed them to look after Karl; the two of them had seemed close. The other possibility, that Johan might have come to take revenge on the slave whose God had sunk his ship, he did not want to consider.

He glanced at Karl again. The Norseman hadn't spoken a word since the Sea Serpent had been swallowed by the waves. Now, he'd have to see his captain – and if Maelcolm guessed correctly, his friend and mentor – drifting like a piece of flotsam, a quickly rotting hull of flesh that was beginning to look as if someone had filled a mouldering burlap sack with water.

Maelcolm tore a strip of linen off his tunic and forced himself to lean over the side once more, placing the cloth on the dead man's face. It would not give Johan's spirit rest, but it might stop him from following them. Maelcolm hoped.

Afterwards, he slid behind the front oars, dipped the blades into the water and began to row as quietly as he could. Karl never stirred. When Maelcolm finally drew the oars back in and carefully looked over the side, there was only water and the moon, broken into a thousand glittering splinters by the waves.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Love getting your reviews!

* * *

Chapter 6

Karl woke to a headache, a feeling as if he'd been deep in his cups the night before. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes. His sleeping fur was gone, as was Maelcolm. He seemed to have spent the night wrapped in a thin blanket, on a hard surface that didn't leave enough room for him to stretch out.

The_ faering. _

He closed his eyes again. He'd dreamed of the demon, that gray, laughing face in the clouds, and of the Sea Serpent as she sailed away, carried by a breeze the Gods had sent to her rescue. Leaving him behind.

He'd woken several times during the night, and at one point he thought he'd seen Maelcolm at the oars. He must have been mistaken. The Saxon was too terrified by what had happened to try and steer the boat anywhere on his own. He'd seen it in the man's eyes yesterday; ill-concealed terror as he stared at the water, so close.

Besides, it didn't seem likely that the slave would take that kind of initiative without Karl's say-so.

Sitting up, Karl rubbed his eyes and felt a stinging pain on his forehead. He touched the place carefully and found the skin swollen and tender. He must have hurt himself the day before without noticing it.

"You should put a bandage on that."

Karl looked up and saw Maelcolm sitting at the other end of the boat. He must have been awake for a while; his blanket was neatly folded and stowed away under the front bench.

"It doesn't hurt," Karl said, beginning to fold up his own blanket. He was annoyed, both by the fact that he'd slept longer than the other man and by Maelcolm's unasked advice.

"It could get infected." Maelcolm frowned at him; like one would at a recalcitrant child, Karl noted resentfully. "I'll help you clean it."

"You stay where you are," Karl said, and didn't even care that he sounded like Hjorvarth on the morning after a drinking bout. "And get me something to drink."

Maybe a cupful of water would help his headache.

Maelcolm raised one eyebrow. "What's it going to be, stay where I am or get you something to drink?"

Karl wanted to throttle the man, but he suspected that moving around too much would only worsen the pounding behind his eyes.

"Get me something to drink right now."

Maelcolm gave him a look before he stood, far too slowly for Karl's liking, and moved over to the water barrels they'd tied to the boat. There was a cup sitting on the front bench, an indication that Maelcolm had had a drink while Karl was asleep.

They'd have to ration the water, or the careless slave would have drunk it all before long. Karl's head hurt like hell.

Finally, Maelcolm came over to hand him the wooden cup. Karl took it without a word of thanks and drank down the water in two gulps.

"More," he said, holding out the cup. The water felt like a cool hand on his forehead, soothing and refreshing, but it hadn't been nearly enough.

Maelcolm frowned again. "Those two barrels might have to last us for a long time."

Karl closed his eyes. The Sea Serpent had left without him – she hadn't, but that was beside the point – he had a blinding headache, and was captive in a cramped _faering_ with the most annoying Saxon in existence. The Gods must have decided that they'd shown him the bright side of life long enough.

"Get me another cup," he narrowed his eyes at the man. "Or else."

For a second, Maelcolm was about to answer _"Or else what?"_, and they both knew it as if the words had been spoken aloud. Karl understood it wasn't a victory on his part when the other man eventually lowered his gaze; it was common sense on Maelcolm's side, who didn't want to risk a fight in a small boat in the middle of the ocean. The realization did nothing to lift his mood.

Maelcolm went and filled the cup a second time, silently handing it to Karl. Karl took it and had drunk half of it when he suddenly thought of Johan, of Runolf and the rest of the crew. They'd died under the demon's hands, he alone had been spared, and here he was, wasting supplies and harassing his slave. Who had also been spared, of course. At least the Gods hadn't left him without a companion.

"Here," he gave the cup back to Maelcolm. "You must be thirsty."

Maelcolm seemed to hesitate, then took the cup and emptied it. "We shouldn't drink any more," he said, and Karl nodded. It wasn't Maelcolm's place to point it out, but the man was right. Two barrels were two barrels, and only the Gods knew when the next rain would come.

Maelcolm stowed the cup away and they sat down at opposite ends of the boat, Maelcolm to do whatever Saxons did when they had idle time on their hands, and Karl to think. If there was a way of getting out of this, he knew he would have to be the one to find it.

* * *

"This is what we'll do," Karl said. He'd told Maelcolm to sit down on the middle bench so that there was an arm's length of clear floor between them. Karl had laid out two leather pouches on the planks and a small glass bead between them.

He pointed at the bead. "That's the _faering_. This is where we are. This," he indicated the pouch on his right, "is your country. The land of the Angles."

"And that's Eirinn over there," Maelcolm said, pointing at the other pouch.

Karl nodded. "We were going to stop at Eirinn's coast somewhere, then sail around the south end of Angles land and stay close to its eastern coast on our way back. The Sea Serpent was in the middle between the two countries when the storm came, but as far as I can tell, the winds carried us closer to Eirinn."

It wasn't a lie; not quite. Karl couldn't tell for sure where the ship had ended up after the storm, and it might even be closer to the land Maelcolm called Eirinn. A land where they were both strangers; where no clanspeople would be waiting to kill the hated _wicing_. Karl didn't look at Maelcolm. He felt like a coward for what he'd told the other man, even though he knew he couldn't go back to Angles land. It would be suicide to follow Maelcolm to a Saxon village.

"How long will it take us to get there?" Maelcolm asked.

"If we take shifts at the oars and only rest for a few hours every day, three or four days," Karl replied. It was more like four or five in his estimation, with the heavy water barrels dragging behind them, but it didn't hurt to be optimistic.

"Good," Maelcolm said, and without further ado sat down behind the oars. Karl did likewise, glad he could turn his back to the other man. He was troubled, both by what he'd just done and by the dream he remembered so clearly, the ship leaving him to drift in the sea. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and judging from Maelcolm's closed-off expression, maybe the Saxon did, too.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Maelcolm's and Karl's riddles are from the Exeter Book, a tenth-century anthology of Anglo-Saxon poetry (which contains quite a lot of suggestive puns ;) ).

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 7

"Another one," Maelcolm demanded. "The last one was easy."

"You needed four guesses to get it right."

"It was easy," Maelcolm insisted, and Karl bit his lip, suddenly reminded of Runolf, who'd never given up until he had found the answer to one of the riddles he loved so much.

"Here comes another one," he said.

_"My home's not silent, but I am not  
loud-mouthed. The Gods shaped  
our course together: I'm swifter than he,  
sometimes stronger; he's more strenuous.  
At times I rest; he must run onward.  
But I live in him all the days of my life;  
if we're divided I'm certain to die."_

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Maelcolm frowning, thinking so furiously that he almost forgot to row.

"The rain and the sky," he suggested after a while.

Karl shook his head. "No. Try again."

More concentrated silence, then, "A fish and a river."

This time, Karl turned around and smiled. "Yes, that's right."

"Easy," was the smug reply, and Karl knew better than to protest.

"Your turn," he said.

Maelcolm considered for a while. _"On the way a miracle: water becomes bone."_

Karl didn't really want to think about water or bones, but tackling a riddle was a matter of honor.

"Soup," he suggested. It wasn't a terribly bright answer, but he was getting hungry.

"No. Try again."

Karl frowned and tried to ignore the enticing mental image of a bowl filled with steaming beef stock. He thought of all the things water could become, and finally thought he'd found the answer. "Ice?"

"Yes," Maelcolm said, sounding pleased.

"Another one," Karl echoed Maelcolm's words of before. "Or don't the Saxons have more riddles than that?"

"I know another one," Maelcolm said, sounding slightly guilty.

Karl was instantly curious. "Let's hear it."

_"A strange thing hangs by a man's thigh,  
hidden by a garment. It has a hole  
in its head. It is still and strong  
and its firm bearing reaps a reward.  
When the man hitches his clothing high  
above his knee, he wants the head  
of that hanging thing to poke the old hole  
(of fitting length) it has often filled before."_

Karl's face grew warm, and he was glad to have his back turned to the other man. "Really, Maelcolm."

"It's a key," Maelcolm said, far too innocently.

Karl laughed.

* * *

"Wheat bread fresh from the oven and sweetened with honey, roasted venison cooked with onions and garlic, and a jug of apple wine. Then small almond cakes to eat with a handful of raspberries."

"I don't know," Karl said. "I'd rather have fish soup and a loin of pork cooked in beer, rosemary and wild berries. And a cup of spiced wine. I'll take some of your almond cakes, though."

"Let me have some of your fish soup, and I'll share," Maelcolm said. They both grinned weakly and returned to the meagre evening meal on the floor between them: four pieces of dried and salted meat and a handful of corn each. Karl bit into one of the meat strips, trying to recall the taste of tender pork loin as he chewed. It didn't really work.

An unexpected sound made him look up. He couldn't identify it at first, until he noticed Maelcolm's expression. The man's stomach had rumbled audibly, as if clamoring for more food than the small amount it was about to receive.

"_It growls and it likes honey, yet it isn't a bear_," Karl teased. "Maybe we can try and catch some fish tomorrow. No fish soup, though." He had rescued some tinder wrapped in oilskin, but only a fool would light a fire in a wooden boat. "That'll have to wait until we've reached the shore."

"If we reach the shore," Maelcolm said softly, but loud enough for Karl to hear.

"What do you mean?"

Maelcolm shrugged. "There might be another storm. Or we might get lost and run out of water."

"The rain will refill the barrels."

"Who says it's going to rain?"

"Who says it's not?"

They stared at each other, their meals forgotten. Karl cursed inwardly. The day had passed in an almost friendly companionship, and Karl had almost forgotten that the other man was a slave, and an insolent one, at that. There had even been a moment or two when he hadn't thought of the Sea Serpent and her crew on the bottom of the sea.

But of course the Saxon had to ruin everything with his prophesies of gloom and doom.

"So you're afraid." Karl knew wasn't being fair, but the man was driving him wild.

Maelcolm's mouth thinned. "Hardly. I know God and the Saints wouldn't abandon me."

His emphasis on the last word was slight but unmistakable. Karl bit off another piece of meat and chewed noisily to show his contempt.

"Your Saints must've been asleep when we went ashore at your village," he said, and immediately wished he could take the words back.

Maelcolm's face had grown rigid. He sat in silence for a moment, then gathered up his share of the food and went to sit at the other end of the _faering_, as far away from the other man as possible.

Karl felt ten times a cad, but there was nothing he could do to make the words unsaid. It wasn't the first time he'd hurt someone by speaking out of turn; a bad trait of his, and he knew it. He also knew he couldn't apologize to a slave. It just wasn't done.

He finished his meal and said nothing when Maelcolm unfolded his blanket and lay down on the floor. He wouldn't apologize, but he could take the first shift at the oars; a silent peace-offering that wouldn't cause him to lose face.

As he began to row, he wondered if Maelcolm would speak to him again, come morning. He hoped so. If not, he was in for a pretty lonely journey.

* * *

"O Katharina, blessed saint and virgin whose limbs were broken on a wheel studded with nails, pray for me in the hour of my deepest need. Amen."

Karl squinted into the darkness, not sure at first what had woken him.

"O Marcellus, blessed saint and prince who was captured by heathens and hurled off a cliff to his death, pray for me in the hour of my distress and atone for the heretics who refuse to hear the True Word. Amen."

Oh hell. Karl rolled onto his back.

"O Vincent of Saragossa, blessed saint who was thrown into prison, tortured with white-hot tongs and burned at the stake, pray for me in the hour of my despair. Amen."

Maybe if he covered his ears and pulled the blanket over his head... no, he couldn't really breathe that way.

"O Cecile, blessed saint and maiden who refused to worship heathen idols and was cooked alive in her own bath, I beseech Thee, pray for me and absolve Thy poor servant from his sins. Amen."

He'd never get any sleep like this.

"O Juthwara, blessed saint and maiden who carried a cheese on her chest and was beheaded by her stepbrother, pray for me in the hour of my need. Amen."

Pushing his blanket aside, Karl sat up and glared into the dark. "You're making them up."

The man sitting on the front bench didn't spare him so much as a glance as he began his next prayer. Karl listened with growing horror, wondering what cruel god would demand such sacrifices.

"That isn't even physically possible. You're making them up."

"O Judoc, blessed saint whose hair and beard continued to grow after he was brutally slaughtered, I beg Thee, pray for me. Amen."

"Everybody's hair continues to grow after death," Karl said. "My hair will continue to grow, and I don't claim to be a saint because of it."

"O Theophilus, blessed saint-"

"How many more are there?" Karl knew he couldn't listen to another tale of someone butchered and hacked to pieces in the name of a strange god, or he would go insane. "Couldn't you just pray to all of them at once? Or don't they listen if you don't mention all the body parts they lost?"

To Karl's great relief, Maelcolm didn't continue his gruesome litany. "I wouldn't expect a heathen to understand," he sniffed.

"What I understand is that I need some sleep before it's my turn at the oars. And it's not going to happen if you invoke every man and woman who was killed by your god."

"They weren't killed by God." Maelcolm sounded peeved. "They were killed for God. There's a difference."

"I don't care if there is." Karl felt his headache starting up again and involuntarily touched his injured forehead, to which Maelcolm had applied a makeshift bandage. "I just want to get some sleep, Maelcolm. Is that so hard to understand?"

"We may be dead in a few days," Maelcolm snapped. "It seems a waste to spend our time sleeping."

"If I don't waste some time sleeping, I'm going to start getting really cranky. And you don't want to spend your last days cooped up with me when I'm cranky. So stop the damn praying and row quietly!"

Maelcolm said nothing, exuding hostility and icy disdain as he plunged the oars back into the water. Karl turned over and tugged his blanket over his shoulder. The cold silence wasn't a great improvement to the constant droning of before, and he knew that it would take him a long time to go back to sleep.

Damn Saxon.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Sorry I'm a little late updating, real life is kicking my butt... haven't gotten around to replying to reviews, I'm afraid, but they're very much appreciated :)!

------------------------------------

Chapter 8

When Maelcolm woke up at the break of dawn, Karl was gone. His sleeping blanket lay crumpled on the middle bench, as if he'd thrown it off before he had disappeared.

Maelcolm was wide awake in an instant. Maybe Johan had returned last night. Maybe the Norsemen's captain had risen from the depths to come for his last surviving crewman, and had... what? Grabbed him, dragged him over the side and down into the belly of the sea to be reunited with his comrades?

Maelcolm pushed his own blanket aside. Last night after his shift, he'd lain under his blanket seething, determined never to exchange another word with the heathen bastard. Stupid. Stupid and childish. And to top it all, he'd offended the Saints by invoking them just to annoy the other man.

"Karl!" Maelcolm called. "Karl, are you there?"

He recoiled when suddenly a head appeared over the side of the boat; wet, grinning, his hair plastered to his cheeks. "Morning."

Maelcolm stared. The man had obviously fallen into the water, a fact that didn't seem to disturb him in the slightest.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked carefully.

Karl seemed confused, and Maelcolm became convinced that the other man had taken temporary leave of his senses. "When you fell out of the boat?" he elaborated. "Why didn't you call for help?"

Karl began to laugh. "I didn't fall out. I jumped."

Maelcolm shook his head. "I don't..."

Karl let go of the boat and slipped back into the water. Maelcolm watched, astounded as the man began to move his arms and legs like a frog, and miraculously glided along as if carried by an invisible hand. Leofric had known stories about people who could wade into a river and cross it without a boat or a raft, but Maelcolm had always dismissed them as mere fairytales. Now, he had the living proof right in front of his eyes.

Karl turned around, swimming on his back now. "Can't you swim?"

"No," Maelcolm said. "I never met anyone who could." He paused, then asked: "Can all Norsemen swim?"

"Not all," Karl said. "It's safer, though, if you're chosen for a tour."

He turned back onto his front and swam over to the boat, making it sway as he pulled himself back in. Only now did Maelcolm notice the small pile of clothes on the planks. Obviously, swimming was done entirely in the nude.

Karl brushed the water off his arms and legs and shook his head like a dog coming in out of the rain. Maelcolm saw that the Norseman's skin was fairer on his chest, buttocks and thighs, where the sun hadn't left a golden brown hue. He also noticed the thatch of blond between Karl's legs, and quickly looked away. He'd never seen anyone with fair hair down there. Or, for that matter, anyone who would shed his clothes and jump into deep water as if it were a haystack. The morning was full of surprises, to be sure.

Karl didn't seem to have noticed Maelcolm's eyes on him, or maybe he didn't care. He slipped into his clothes and sat down on the middle bench, where he began to untangle his wet braid.

"There's a comb in there," he said with a glance at Maelcolm, indicating a small leather pouch under the front bench.

There was something about the casual order that didn't sit well with Maelcolm. He said nothing as he stood and went to fetch the pouch. Inside was a small wooden comb as well as a pair of scissors and an earspoon.

"You brought all that from the ship?" he asked, and Karl shrugged.

"It'll come in handy, I guess."

He turned and presented his back to Maelcolm, entirely at ease, as if this was a routine the two of them had established a long time ago. Maelcolm hesitated, then placed the pouch on the bench next to the Norseman and retreated to where he'd been sitting before.

Karl looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Maelcolm began to fold up his blanket, mostly to have something to do with his hands. "Why?"

Karl sighed. "It's customary for slaves to assist their master's personal grooming." He glanced significantly at the pouch. "You know, combing and such."

Maelcolm chose his next words carefully. "And a dutiful slave would be honored by such trust, as would a free man who is asked for a favor by a friend."

Karl's back had stiffened. "Am I to assume, then," he answered in the same formal tone, "that there are no dutiful slaves in this boat?"

Maelcolm forced himself to look the man straight in the eyes as he answered. "There are no slaves in this boat, dutiful or otherwise."

This could go either way, and Maelcolm knew it. The Norseman had most of the advantages, the greatest one being that he could glide through water like a fish, whereas Maelcolm would only thrash for a while before he miserably drowned.

Yet he also knew that he could only take so much before he lost his temper and said something really insulting. Better to draw the battle lines when he could still respond calmly to whatever Karl did now.

For a long moment, Karl did nothing whatsoever. He just sat there, and the thought crossed Maelcolm's mind that the Norseman, too, might be unsure how to deal with the situation.

"So..." Karl said finally. "You're telling me there are no slaves in this boat."

Maelcolm nodded. "That's right."

"What about the man I captured and took back to my ship? The laws of my people state that he's my slave."

"But the ship has sunk," Maelcolm replied. "Only two men are left, the only ones who escaped the storm and who have to find their way to the shore. I don't believe either of them has much use for a slave. But I do think they'd find their situation easier to bear if they each had a friend to rely on."

Karl gave him a long look. "A friend who took you from your home?"

"A friend who lost his own home and friends," Maelcolm said. "I'd be honored to have his trust and respect."

There was another lengthy pause, then Karl nodded. "Me too," he said softly.

Suddenly filled with the desire to end this, Maelcolm stood up and went over to where Karl was sitting.

"Hand me that comb," he ordered, nodding at the pouch. "And no complaining, or it will really hurt."

Karl laughed softly. "If you promise me something?"

"What?" Maelcolm asked as he reached into the thick blond hair and began to tease out the tangles.

"No more Saints," Karl said with feeling. "They're awful."

"No more Saints," Maelcolm agreed and smiled. Full of surprises, indeed.

* * *

The sun rose high that day, burning down on the calm sea. Maelcolm cut up one of the spare blankets and made two bandannas, but they provided only little protection. When it wasn't his turn at the oars, Karl kept jumping into the water to cool himself off. He would dive under the boat and emerge on the other side, delighted when he actually managed to startle Maelcolm the first few times.

Watching him, Maelcolm wished he could find the same kind of refreshment, but he wouldn't for the life of him have climbed over the side of the boat. After Karl had coaxed and cajoled him long enough, he finally agreed to stick his feet in the water, one at a time. The sudden cold was invigorating, and yet Maelcolm didn't trust the way the waves lapped at his ankles. That wasn't what he told Karl, of course. Godfearing Christians, he said, didn't jump into the water and swam like fish, because the Lord in his wisdom hadn't given them fins and gills. An admittedly weak argument, and Karl's grin said that the Norseman saw right through him.

Watching Karl's antics in the water, Maelcolm began to feel more and more like a dumb yokel who knew nothing of the world. His mood became accordingly sullen, and would have deteriorated even further if not for the incident with the fish.

It was Karl's turn at the oars, and Maelcolm was lazing at the other end of the boat, idly dragging one hand through the water when he noticed a shadow the length of his forearm close by.

He indicated Karl to stop rowing and reached for the pointed stick he'd prepared for this very purpose. He left his hand in the water. Presumably, the fish had approached the boat because it had mistaken his fingers for a likely-looking prey.

Maelcolm waited, and the shadow gradually drew closer to the boat. By now, he could make out the plump form and serrated fins of a sea bass. The fish took its time, inching closer so slowly that its movements were almost imperceptible. From the corners of his eyes, Maelcolm noticed Karl watching, his gaze flickering back and forth between Maelcolm and the fish.

When the bass was less than a sword's length away from his hand, Maelcolm raised his makeshift weapon, aimed and thrust it into the water. Luck was with him: when he lifted the spear out there was the fish impaled on it, dripping water and blood as it flapped wildly to escape.

Maelcolm pulled his catch off the spear and swung it hard against the side of the boat. A wet thud, and the fish's body grew limp. He dropped it on the planks. It was a large one, fattened by a life of stuffing itself on small fish and insects. Now, it would provide food for at least two days.

"You're good with the spear," Karl said. He'd pulled the oars into the boat and came over to have a closer look at Maelcolm's fish, picking it up and weighing it in his hands. "I didn't know the Saxons were hunters."

Maelcolm felt a momentary resentment at the remark. The Norsemen with their sharp swords and ferocious battle masks might think otherwise, but his people weren't just peasants who toiled in the fields all their lives. "Our children are taught to handle bow and spear from their fourth summer," he said stiffly.

Karl looked at him. "That's what I thought. Your clan fought bravely."

Maelcolm was surprised at the strong surge of emotions within him. He hadn't allowed himself to think about home much; not since that first night when his grief had overwhelmed him and he'd ended up weeping in the arms of the man who had abducted him.

"We did," was all he said as he crouched down on the planks to gut his fish. He didn't want to think about that first night, either.

Karl sat down next to him. "Do the Saxons offer sacrifice for the dead?"

"Sometimes," Maelcolm admitted. "When our priest, Father Benedictus, is away to meet with his abbot."

Karl frowned. "Why does your priest have to be away?"

"He doesn't approve of such practices," Maelcolm shrugged.

"Why not? Doesn't he care about his forebears?"

Maelcolm shrugged again. He had asked himself the same thing, but hadn't dared to bring it up with the priest. "He says they're with God and the Saints."

Karl didn't look convinced. "Yes, but what do they eat? How do they clothe themselves?"

"I'm not sure," Maelcolm said, annoyed with himself for never inquiring into these matters. Karl must think he was quite the half-wit. "I can't ask him now, can I?"

Karl didn't react to the hostile tone. He traced one finger across the scales of the dead bass, leaving an iridescent line behind. "A proud catch," he said. "And an offer that wouldn't be rejected."

"All of it?" Maelcolm knew he shouldn't be thinking of his stomach, but he'd been looking forward to something other than dried meat and corn.

As if he had read his thoughts, Karl offered a crooked smile. "The spirits aren't greedy. I'm sure they won't begrudge us half the fish."

Maelcolm nodded. No, the spirits weren't greedy. And if sacrificing half of his catch would keep Johan from following them, he was more than happy to go without it.

He cleaned one of the knives on his shirt and began to cut up the fish, accompanying each stroke of the blade with sacred words to consecrate the meat. He whispered the names of the Old Gods; that was how it had to be done. His father's father had sometimes spoken of the time before the monks had come, when those names had been shouted aloud over the fires of summer solstice. They'd often had to shush the old man when Father Benedictus was in hearing range.

When Maelcolm was done, he'd sliced off a large piece of fatty belly meat and the head; the best parts of the fish. They wrapped them in oilskin and laid them out of a piece of wooden board – a poor offering, but the spirits would understand that they couldn't burn the meat or sprinkle it with herbs.

As he set the board afloat, Maelcolm asked Wade, the God of the Sea, and Hel, the Goddess of Death, to deliver their sacrifice to those it had been intended for. Karl's eyes were closed, his lips moving as he mouthed his own prayers.

They watched in silence as the water carried their gift away. It had shrunk to a pebble-sized spot in the distance when suddenly a wave washed over it, sweeping the board clean. Wade and Hel had accepted their offer. The spirits would leave them in peace.

They cut up the rest of the bass into bite-shaped pieces, keeping a companionable silence. Karl had grabbed a knife and helped prepare the food, something he wouldn't have done on the previous day.

Before they began to eat, the Norseman quickly bowed his head. "Thank you for sharing your fish."

Maelcolm nodded. "It is yours, too."

He'd have to pray at least ten _paternosters_ for this, Maelcolm thought as he watched Karl partake with gusto of the fresh fish. But it was a small price to pay for the spirits' peace and the respect he'd seen in the Norseman's eyes.

* * *

"You speak my language well," Maelcolm said. They'd both abandoned the oars for the day; the spirits, appeased by the sacrifice, wouldn't let the winds carry them far off course.

Karl was watching the darkening sky as if waiting for something. "Yes. I knew the Saxon tongue even as a child."

"Who taught you?" Maelcolm asked. If Karl didn't want to tell him, he wouldn't.

The Norseman sat up. "My mother," he said. "She taught us children her language. My father didn't think it would do any harm as long as we didn't speak it outside the house, so he let her."

"She was a Saxon."

"Yes," Karl said. "She was a young girl when my uncles captured her. A few years later, my father took her as his wife."

"Your laws allow a free man to marry a slave?" Back home, such a union would have been unthinkable.

"He made my uncle free her," Karl replied with a touch of pride, and Maelcolm wondered if there had been one uncle less at the wedding. He didn't ask.

"She was lucky."

Karl nodded. "But there are more like her. Some of us have Saxons for their wives. Or husbands," he added, which made Maelcolm look up.

"Your women may choose a prisoner as their mate?"

Karl shrugged. "Who would stop them? Not me." He raised his hands as if to demonstrate surrender.

Maelcolm grinned, about to let loose a jibe about Norsemen who wore the pants in the house – under their aprons. Then he remembered Ealdgyth, and quickly closed his mouth. If she had her mind set on something... indeed, who would stop her. Not her young husband, that was for sure.

"Do you have a wife?" he asked, unwilling to let the thoughts of Ealdgyth take hold.

Karl sighed. "I was betrothed this winter."

"You don't seem happy about it," Maelcolm observed.

"She'll just have turned nine when I return," Karl said. "I won't have children before my thirtieth winter."

"She was chosen for you?" Having just learned that Norsewomen were free to choose their mates, this seemed strange to Maelcolm.

Karl nodded. "She's the daughter of a chieftain my uncles were at feud with. Our betrothal was part of the peace treaty."

Maelcolm nodded. Such arrangements weren't uncommon. His own marriage had been negotiated and settled while he was away on a hunting trip. "I was married to Ealdgyth, the High Reeve's sister. She was sixteen years older than me. She was a good wife, though," he added quickly. It was the truth, and there was always the possibility that her spirit was listening.

"She was killed?" Karl asked, turning back to watch the sky.

"Yes," Maelcolm said quietly. "She was with me at the fence."

Karl looked at him. "So your women join you in fighting?"

"Who would stop them?" Maelcolm raised his hands. "Not me."

Karl smiled, and Maelcolm felt some of the heaviness lift from his soul. Saying the name of his late wife, recalling her bravery in death honored her memory. So far, the image of her dying had only reminded him that he'd been unable to protect her... protect anyone.

"It looks like neither of us is going to have children before their thirtieth winter." _Or ever._ But he didn't say that.

"You don't know that," Karl said. "I'm confident that there'll be another Karl Karlsson one day."

"Your son's name will be Karl, too?"

Karl nodded. "As was my father's before me."

"And if it's a daughter?" The words had already left his mouth when Maelcolm realized that they might be taken as an offence. Some men considered female offspring an unnecessary burden at best.

But Karl didn't look offended. "Then she'll be a Karlsdottir," he replied cheerfully. "Aelfgifu Karlsdottir."

"A Saxon name?"

"Oh yes," Karl smiled. "My mother would be after my hide if I didn't name my firstborn after her."

Suddenly his smile fell, and Maelcolm knew what was going through his mind. It would be a long time until he saw his home again, his family. If they ever reached any land, they wouldn't step onto the Norsemen's shore.

_At least he has somewhere to return to_. Maelcolm leaned back and watched the stars as, one by one, they took over the sky. The sun had almost set, and a pale red line was all that remained of its forceful presence. _Where will I go?_

To the Norsemen's land, to become one of those Saxon husbands?

Back home to live out his life in Father Benedictus' monastery, tending to the monks' crops and stables?

He stood up. "I'll take the next shift," he said.

Karl only nodded, lost in his own thoughts as he watched the nightly sky.

* * *

"Maelcolm, look!"

Maelcolm wanted to brush off the hand that had shaken him awake and go back to sleep, but Karl was persistent.

"You have to see this!"

Maelcolm pushed his blanket aside. It couldn't be another dead body. There was no reason why the spirits should send one of their own after the _faering_; not after they'd accepted the sacrifice.

"What is it?"

"There!" Karl pointed upwards.

Streaks of fire – for something so bright could only be aflame – raced across the sky, each of them followed by a blazing trail that faded quickly into the darkness. There had to be dozens of them, crossing paths and setting each other afire as they flared up and disappeared.

Awed, Maelcolm knelt on his blanket. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Karl said in a hushed voice. "Some say they're dragons. The Gods order them to fight for their entertainment."

Portents. Flashes of lightning and fiery dragons.

"Bad omens?" Maelcolm asked. Maybe he should cover his eyes, pray a few _paternosters_.

"Some say they're omens." Karl shielded his face, watching the fiery spectacle. "Not necessarily bad, though. They say that if a sky dragon hits you with his tail, your life changes forever."

Maelcolm nodded slowly, and looked back up at the sky. He no longer felt the need to cover his eyes. His life had already changed forever, so he needn't fear the brush of a dragon's tail.

"They're beautiful," he said quietly, and felt a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"They are," Karl said.

Together, they watched as the dragons played their boisterous games, brightening the sky before they disappeared again into the darkness.

TBC...

Phew, quite a long chapter... please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I love to hear what you think!

* * *

Chapter 9

They'd changed shifts for the second time that day when Karl noticed that the air smelled differently. There was something clammy to it, a humid quality that hadn't been there before. The wind, too, felt cold to him, biting his skin rather than touching it gently.

He searched the sky. It was overcast, but there were no storm clouds on the horizon, not yet anyway. The water's surface rippled nervously as the wind brushed across it.

"It's going to rain," Maelcolm said without looking up from his work. He was sitting on the middle bench, sharpening his spear. This morning he'd caught another small fish, little more than two bites for each of them. They hadn't shared it with the spirits this time.

"Yes." Karl gripped the oars harder and plunged them back into the water. It was going to rain, and perhaps the rain would turn into a downpour, and the downpour into a storm. There was no way of telling, not at this point. Johan might've been able to, but Johan, of course, was dead.

Maelcolm squinted at the sky. "We'll need some sort of shelter."

"Why don't you pull out some of the floor planks and build us a hut?" Karl asked before he could stop himself.

Maelcolm gave him a surprised look. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind."

"I'm sorry," Karl shook his head. "I don't know why I said that."

He really didn't. Sometimes words just tumbled out of his mouth, and it was only when he saw the hurt look on the other person's face that he knew he had done it again.

But Maelcolm didn't look hurt. He nodded, accepting the apology, and Karl had the distinct feeling that the other man knew where his sudden outburst had come from, better than he himself knew.

"We'll have to build some sort of tent with the blankets," Maelcolm said, looking around the _faering_. "If we could fasten them to the boat somehow..."

Karl considered. They could tie the blankets to the pointed keel and the oarlocks at either side of the boat, but that alone wouldn't make a tent.

"We could make a hole into the middle bench and stick your spear into it," he suggested finally. "Like a tent pole, you see?"

Maelcolm nodded, understanding immediately. "We'll tie the blankets to the keel and to either side of the boat, and the spear will hold them up." He smiled. "I wouldn't have thought of that. You have a builder's mind."

Karl lowered his head to hide a blush. "Let's see if it works."

It took him the better part of an hour to carve a hole into the hard wood of the bench. As they tried to set up the spear, the opening turned out too big to keep the "tent pole" upright. Karl was about to throw his knife down in frustration when Maelcolm suggested wrapping a strip of fabric around the spear to give it the necessary diameter. The added layer did the trick, and when the spear had been successfully wedged into the hole, they both cheered like boys on their first hunt.

They were tying the last blanket into place when the raindrops began to fall. They were cold, Karl noticed, colder than he'd expected. He checked the water barrels. They'd kept them carefully covered lest they be spoiled by sea water, and had only taken the lids off when they wanted a drink.

"One of us will have to open the barrels so the rain can refill them."

Maelcolm nodded. "We should take the food supplies into the tent with us. Wouldn't do to let the meat get soaked, it tastes bad enough when it's dry."

Karl grinned. The unpleasant taste of the dried meat had become a running joke between them.

They worked quickly in the strengthening rain, stacking supplies at either side of the tent. There wasn't much room in between, just enough for two men and the two woven blankets they had left, but neither of them minded the close quarters. The rain was rapidly turning into sleet, accompanied by a biting wind that whipped in their faces. Any source of warmth was welcome in this weather.

They huddled close together inside the tent, wrapped in their blankets to contain their body heat. It was cramped, and yet comfortable in a way that reminded Karl of his childhood hide-outs in the woods. He and his brothers would stay out there for hours, tell jokes and stories and eat honey cake they'd swiped from the larder. Even his little sister Ljufu had joined them at times. He smiled, remembering how she'd demanded her share of cake. The youngest sibling and only girl, she'd always been a little princess.

The rain pelted the tent like a torrent of pebbles, breaking the water's surface into a thousand tiny ripples. It was still cold, yet the storm Karl had feared didn't seem to be coming. There was only rain, a downpour that would have people and animals crouching in the house by the fire. Back home, he'd take out his carving knife and sit down next to hearth in the great hall, and maybe Johan's old dog would come and curl up on his feet.

"Tell me about your family," he said to Maelcolm, surprising himself. He hadn't consciously intended to ask this question, and wasn't sure if he wasn't crossing boundaries not open to him yet.

Maelcolm was silent for a while before he asked, "What do you want to know?"

"You're the son of Stigweard," Karl said. "Has Stigweard more sons?"

Maelcolm shook his head. "A daughter, Magdalene. She lives with her husband in a village about four days away."

"Do you see her sometimes?"

"Sometimes," Maelcolm replied. "She sends word through the merchants who travel the coast."

"What about Stigweard and his wife?" Karl asked, although he dreaded the answer. But he had to know; if Maelcolm's parents had been killed by Johan's men he needed to know.

"Mary, my mother, died in childbirth when I was nine. Stigweard never took another wife. He liked being alone. Or maybe Mary was the only woman for him. He never told me."

"Did he die?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him fall that night."

Karl understood, and was glad - glad and grateful. Maelcolm didn't know if his father had died, so he wasn't bound by duty to kill the old man's murderers. Murderer, Karl corrected himself. There was only one of them left.

"My father had a fishing boat," Maelcolm continued. "He often stayed on the water for several days. I would have inherited it after his death."

Karl didn't miss the dry undertone. "You were to be a fisherman?"

Maelcolm nodded. "My father wished it."

"But you didn't."

"I'm a good hunter," Maelcolm said – a statement of facts, not a boast. "I know the woods, and I can handle a spear."

"That you can," Karl confirmed, referring to Maelcolm's catch of the previous day. The other man gave him a quick smile, then added:

"I'm a miserable fisherman, though. When my father took me out for the first time, I tore the net and wasted an entire day's catch. My father was so angry he didn't even beat me."

"He didn't beat you?"

Maelcolm sighed. "He took me to the priest – Father Paulus, back then – and left me there to pray on my knees for two days."

As a boy, Karl knew he would have preferred a beating over two days of enforced inactivity. "How old were you at the time?"

"Seven."

"Quite young to be a fisherman," Karl said, trying for a neutral tone. It wasn't his place to offer an opinion.

Maelcolm shrugged. "I could've been of help to him if I hadn't been so clumsy."

"You're not clumsy. " It was one of the last words Karl would use to describe the Saxon.

"I was back then. There was... too much water."

It was all Maelcolm said, and for once, Karl didn't put his foot in it by laughing at the wrong time.

"Is there too much water now?"

Maelcolm laughed softly and bumped his head against Karl's shoulder. "What do you think, _wicing_?"

Karl smiled ruefully. "I think there could hardly be _more_ water if we were sitting on the bottom of the sea."

Maelcolm nodded. "I still prefer this _faering_ of yours to a resting place between fish and seaweed."

"This _faering_ of ours," Karl corrected, and got a smile in return.

"This _faering_ of ours, yes." Maelcolm shifted slightly and began to rummage around in the supplies stacked next to him. "I don't know about you, but I could use some food."

Karl understood that the conversation about Maelcolm's family was over, for now at least. "Yes, me too."

A handful of corn and a strip of dried meat each – Karl would remember this particular combination for a long time, and avoid it in the future if at all possible. As he chewed on his ration, he told Maelcolm all about this year's Mayfest, about the drinking, the singing and dancing and the food - baked oysters, honey cakes and a huge horse roast dripping with fat.

Maelcolm had been listening attentively, yet when Karl brought up the spitted and roasted horse he almost spilled his corn onto the planks. "You eat horses?" he asked, his eyes wide as if Karl had casually related how they'd roasted and eaten his grandmother.

"Yes," Karl frowned. "It's good meat. Don't the Saxon eat horses?"

Maelcolm shook his head. "There are laws against it. Horses are not for eating."

"Why not?" Karl asked, slightly miffed. It wasn't as if his people ate unclean animals like bats or foxes, but what was so horrible about having a horse roast?

"Horses aren't for eating," Maelcolm repeated, as if the statement was self-explanatory. "Some men are buried with their horses."

"Some men are buried with their ships," Karl replied. "Yet they still use them for sailing."

"That's different," Maelcolm said.

"Why?"

"It just is." It was Maelcolm's turn to sound miffed, and Karl resigned himself that he wouldn't find out today why eating horse meat wasn't acceptable.

"We had grilled fish too," he returned to his earlier subject. "Buttermilk cakes topped with bilberries, chicken stew with beer, cod with honey-glazed onions..."

"Enough, enough," Maelcolm smiled, and Karl was relieved to see it. "You're making my mouth water, and I'd say there's quite enough water around already."

Karl could only agree to that. So far the tent offered enough protection to keep the rain from collecting in the bottom of the boat, but if the downpour continued like this, they'd have to start baling before long. At least the waves hadn't built much, and only sent the occasional spray of salt water over the side of the boat. With any luck, the storm that lurked inside every cloud wouldn't be set free today.

As he finished his meal, Karl remembered that one of their water barrels was almost empty. He shook off his blanket and began taking off his clothes.

Malcolm frowned. "You're not planning to go for a swim, are you?"

Karl shook his head. "We have to open the barrel while it's still raining," he said. "And I doubt you'll want to share this tent with me if I'm dripping wet and smelling like a dog on a rainy day."

Malcolm grinned and helped him pull his leather jerkin over his head. "I happen to like dogs."

Karl laughed. "Me too. But you've obviously never smelled old Porth when he's come in out of the rain and lies down next to the fire. Fumes would be too mild a word."

Karl had discarded his undergarments and shoes earlier on in their voyage, as had Maelcolm – in the scorching heat of the previous day, they'd only kept enough coverings to protect their skin from the sun. He pulled off his trousers and tossed them aside, steeling himself against the cold as he crawled out of the tent.

It was like stepping out of the steam-filled bath house on a winter morning. He was instantly soaked, his teeth chattering as he made his way over to the other end of the _faering_. The wind drove icy needles into his skin. At one point, he nearly stumbled and fell on the slippery planks, grabbing the front bench for balance.

"Cold, eh?" Maelcolm called from inside the tent, and Karl thought he'd heard a trace of amusement in the Saxon's voice.

"Fucking freezing!" he called back.

"I thought you Norsemen were used to it!"

Damn Saxon was making fun of him again.

"I hear that's what they say about Saxons and their sheep!" Karl leaned over the side of the boat and began to untie the cord that held the lid of the barrel in place.

He didn't quite catch Maelcolm's reply, doubtlessly an even greater affront to Norsemen in general and him in particular. Karl grinned. He could trade insults with the best of them, and it seemed that Maelcolm could, too.

"What does the Saxon king keep under his bed?" He paused for effect, then, "I hear it's not a chamber pot, and the queen knows its name!"

Karl was sure that any bystander would have thought them mad: two men adrift in a small _faering_, one of them without a stitch of clothing, yelling silly insults through the pouring rain.

By the time the barrel began to overflow, his fingers had become numb, and he had to try several times before he managed to tie the lid back into place. There didn't seem a trace of warmth left in his body, as if he'd been lying in a mountain stream for the last two hours. Rain trickled into his eyes and ran down his face like so many tears. Wiping it off had proved fruitless and so he didn't even try as he stumbled back, half-blind, and promptly knocked his shin against the middle bench.

_"Heimskr vatn!"_

"I don't know what that means, but I can imagine," Maelcolm remarked mildly as Karl ducked back into the tent, soaked and limping. "Here," he held out a folded piece of fabric. "Use this."

When Karl had dried off and handed it back, he noticed that it was Maelcolm's tunic he had just used as a towel.

"You're going to be cold like this," he said.

Maelcolm shook his head, dismissing the idea. "I'll be fine."

"You didn't have to give me your shirt."

Maelcolm gave an impatient shrug. "It's fine, really."

Karl decided to let the matter go, beginning the awkward process of slipping back into his trousers in the cramped space of the tent. His skin had broken out in goosebumps, and he was glad to wrap himself back into his blanket and huddle closer to the other man.

That was when he noticed the earthenware bottle between Maelcolm's feet.

"Where did you find that?" he asked.

"In one of the sacks," Maelcolm nodded at the stacks of supplies. "I thought a drink of ale might warm us up."

Karl reached for the bottle and weighed it in his hand. "It's mead," he said. "Quite a good one, too. Johan was planning to give it to somebody back home. Can't remember who. I guess it's ours now," he added with a cheer he didn't feel. He didn't want to think of Johan, or home, for that matter.

"What should we drink to?" Maelcolm asked as Karl unstopped the cork.

Karl considered, then raised the bottle. "To the brave men and women who died, ashore and afloat. May their spirits find peace."

The mead left a trail of warmth in his throat, and Karl felt a sudden wetness in his eyes that had nothing to do with the strong beverage. He blinked the tears away.

"To the dead," Maelcolm repeated quietly as he accepted the bottle. "May their spirits rest with God."

There seemed nothing to add, and so they sat in silence, taking the occasional swig and listening to the steady thrumming of the rain.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

AN: I loved getting your feedback, thank you! Now on to the final part (plus epilogue)....

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Chapter 10

"When I first taught him to dive, he really got on my nerves."

Maelcolm paused in mid-swallow and lowered the bottle. "You taught your captain to dive?"

Karl nodded. "There are some beautiful stone corals around the fjords. When I was a boy, we used to dive for them and trade them in with the merchants. Johan wanted to know how it was done."

"So what did he do to get on your nerves?"

Karl sighed. "Whatever it was I was teaching him, he'd get it the first time. Took him to some caves once, a little further off the coast. Only the best divers can hold their breath long enough to reach them. Johan? He stayed down there for almost three minutes and came up with the largest coral I'd ever seen."

Maelcolm grinned. "A good student."

"Too good," Karl grumbled. "I was the teacher! I'd been diving all my life, and then some landlubber comes and does everything faster and better than me. That's when I decided to introduce him to Valthjof."

"And who..." Maelcolm hiccupped and pressed a hand to his lips before he continued, "... was that?"

"A silver eel. About thirty years old and four arms long. We'd found his hole a few years ago and steered clear of it ever since. I told Johan my brothers and I had hidden some coins inside. Johan reached in..." Karl chuckled. "Damn if old Valthjof didn't take hold of his forearm."

Maelcolm hiccupped again. "It bit him?"

"Took quite a chunk out of his arm." Karl grinned.

"That must've been the last time he ever went diving with you," Maelcolm said.

Karl shook his head. "That was the thing. He found it a lot funnier than I did. We came up again, his arm's dripping with blood and he's cracking up like mad. Almost didn't make it to the shore because he couldn't stop laughing. He invited me to sit with him in the hall that night... share his mead."

He stared down at the bottle. He'd found a friend that day, a man whose respect had meant so much to him.

"Johan picked me for the tour... my uncles didn't think I should go. They said I was better suited for the smithy." He took a long swig, then glanced at Maelcolm, who was watching him silently. "I think they were right."

Maelcolm took the bottle from his hand. "You fought well."

Karl said nothing. He wouldn't tell Maelcolm about the child in the stable, the child whose black, burned face haunted his dreams.

"Drink to him," Maelcolm said.

Karl glanced up. "What?"

Maelcolm held out the bottle. "Drink to his spirit. It will please him."

After a moment's hesitation, Karl took the bottle, raising it in salute. "To Johan, captain of the Sea Serpent," he said. "We honor your memory."

He drank, the strong beverage filling his stomach with warmth.

"To Ealdgyth and Stigweard," Maelcolm said, took the bottle and drank. "We honor your memory and wish you peace."

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

###

"Y'hear that?"

"Wha'?" Maelcolm brought the bottle to his lips, taking an unsteady sip.

"That... _gjalla_."

"I don't undersh- understand you, _wicing_. Talk normal."

"I am talking nuh- normal."

"No you're not."

"Am."

"Not."

Karl glared blearily at his friend and made a grab for the bottle. "That _noise._ D'you hear that _noise_?"

"The rain," Maelcolm said, rolling his head from side to side like a bear that had just emerged from hibernation. "'s just the rain."

"Nuh-uh. Sounds like someone's laughing. Giggling. Hey!" Karl shouted. "You shut up out there!"

"Don't," Maelcolm said. "Maybe it's evil spirits. Sea monsters. Bad idea, telling them t'shut up." He chuckled.

"They can giggle all they want, but the monsters aren't getting any of our mead," Karl said, and began to chuckle as well, sloshing some of the bottle's contents onto the planks.

"Don' waste it!" Maelcolm dragged a finger through the spilled liquid and licked it off. "Not bad. Kind of salty."

"Ugh," Karl pulled a face. "You Saxons were all born in a barn."

"Tha's right," Maelcolm agreed cheerfully. "And so was our Lord Jesus Christ. Gimme that," he grabbed the bottle and took a swig. "You _wicings_ sh-sure know how to make mead, even though you're heathens."

"An' you Saxons sure know how to hold your drink, even though you're just farm lads."

Maelcolm stuck his tongue out and lifted the bottle to his mouth, nearly missing.

"Here," he said, and thrust it at Karl. "Finish it before it finishes you."

He laughed, delighted with his own wit, and Karl joined in, slumping against his friend as he emptied the bottle in one huge gulp.

"Maelcolm?" he asked after a while.

"Y-yes?"

"Do you think we'll ever reach the shore?"

Karl waited, but no answer was forthcoming. He turned slightly to look at the other man. Maelcolm's eyes were closed, his mouth half-open as he slept.

_An answer of sorts_, Karl thought, and let go of the bottle, which rolled over the planks and clanked against the middle bench. His eyes were beginning to droop, and he felt a strange heaviness settle over his limbs. Maybe this was how it ended, with a bottle of mead and two drunken men lying on the floor of a _faering_. And maybe that was just as well.

_At least we saw the dragons. _Karl smiled as he fell asleep.

They'd always have that.

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Epilogue has been posted!


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

The rain had stopped.

Maelcolm noticed before he'd even opened his eyes. The constant pattering of raindrops on the sea was gone. It was strange how loud silence could be. He almost wanted to cover his ears against it.

He cracked his eyes open, regretting it immediately when a stab of pain went through his head. There was a vile taste on his tongue, sweet and rancid. Like old honey, he thought, and felt his stomach churn. Whatever had possessed them to knock back an entire bottle of mead, they were now getting their comeuppance.

Maelcolm slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. Karl was still down for the count, snoring softly on the blanket. Better to let him sleep for a while. He'd be awake and miserable soon enough.

Something grated against the boat, a sound like someone dragging their fingernails over a piece of slate. Maelcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. That sound – didn't belong. It shouldn't be there. Should it?

Perhaps a drink of water would help. They had enough; he vaguely remembered Karl refilling the barrel before he'd returned to the tent and they'd imbibed enough _wicing_ mead to last him for the rest of his miserable life.

Maelcolm ducked out of the tent entrance, shielding his eyes against the bright morning sun. The nausea had subsided somewhat, just enough for him not to give in to the temptation of leaning over the side of the boat and emptying his unhappy stomach. The Norsemen's mead must be stronger than the one they had at home.

Keeping his eyes down against the glare, he made his way over to the water barrels. The boat seemed to rock more than it normally did, and the grating wouldn't stop, grinding away in sync with the waves.

The sound didn't belong, and yet Maelcolm realized that he'd heard it before. As a would-be fisherman, he'd anxiously awaited it – the sound of his father's boat grating onto the shore, signalling that another long day on the water was finally over.

Yes, he knew that sound. Suddenly certain what he was going to see, he turned around.

The beach was a pale stretch of sand, the same sand that was grating against the underside of the _faering._ Beyond that, the land was green, a lush color that brought the softly undulating hills to life. Eirinn, he thought. Tales were told of its green hills and valleys. This was Eirinn stretching right before his eyes.

He looked to his right, where white-faced rock cliffs protruded over the sea. He could see birds nesting in the crevices and ledges, could hear their piercing cries over the steady roar of the waves. To his left, another endless sea of green under a blue sky.

"Karl," he said softly. "Karl, wake up."

Karl didn't, of course, and so Maelcolm climbed back into the tent, shaking the sleeping man until he finally opened his eyes.

"What? What is it?"

"Come," Maelcolm grabbed the blanket Karl was trying to pull over his face. "Come and look."

"What is it, damn it?" Karl groaned. "My head's killing me."

"Never mind your head now." Maelcolm took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "This you'll want to see."

Karl's first reaction was the same as his: he simply stood there and stared, like a man seeing an apparition. Then – and Maelcolm had expected no different - he threw his arms up and whooped, punching the air as if he'd just won a fight.

"We made it!" He pulled Maelcolm into a bear hug, nearly squeezing the air out of his lungs. "You hear that, Saxon? We made it!"

"We did," Maelcolm laughed. "I wonder how close we were to the shore when the rain began."

"Close enough to swim, I'd say." Karl pulled back and grinned. "It's just as well, or we would've missed out on the mead."

Maelcolm smiled. "Let's get out of here."

They jumped into the knee-deep water and dragged the _faering_ ashore, securing it to a nearby rock so the waves wouldn't carry it back out. Maelcolm found that the ground still swayed under his feet, buoyed by invisible waves. Karl, who had acquired his "sea legs" long ago, told him that the feeling would pass.

"It takes a while until your feet get used to firm ground again."

After the boat was taken care of, they gathered driftwood and built a small fire, using the tinder Karl had kept in an oilskin bag all this time. They had no fish left and no food that cooking would improve; and Maelcolm found he wasn't even particularly hungry. For now, it seemed enough just to sit there and watch the flames as they slowly ate the dry wood. The last fire he'd seen had been far away, bright streaks that raced across a nightly sky. Dragons, lashing out with their tails at those careless enough not to duck away. Or brave enough. It took courage to take a hit by a dragon's tail. He knew that now.

"I think I saw a smoke trail earlier," Karl said. He pointed at the cliffs. "Somewhere up there."

"A village maybe." Maelcolm fed another piece of wood to the fire. A village full of people who might not take kindly to two strangers who'd been washed ashore at their coast.

"They _might_ be friendly, you know." A look at Karl's smile told Maelcolm that the other man had been reading his thoughts.

"They might," he conceded. "Best not to speak your _wicing_ tongue, though."

Karl nodded. "Best not."

They ate two strips of meat each, then gathered everything from the _faering_ that might be used for bartering or as a gift. There wasn't much, only their well-used blankets, a few sacks of corn and two bottles of mead. Nothing they'd have given a second glance back home, Maelcolm thought glumly as he eyed the small pile.

"Take your spear," Karl said.

Maelcolm frowned. "It wouldn't be much use in a fight."

Karl smiled. "You're a hunter, aren't you?"

"So?"

"Every village I've come across has use for another hunter," Karl said. "And there's always work for a blacksmith."

Maelcolm wanted to shake his head at the other man's optimism, to point out that they might well be riddled with arrows before they'd even reached the village.

But he said nothing. They'd survived the storm and found their way ashore, and they'd seen the fire dragons play. It seemed unlikely that they'd been guided here just to be killed by Eirinn's warriors.

He shouldered his spear, nodding at Karl to lead the way.

Together, they began the long walk up the cliffs.

~The End~

I'd love to know what you think! Thanks for reading!


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